


the setting sun is sweetest last

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Gen, a VERY BAD RENDERING of my feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:25:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: "Winning for my club was always the most important thing, and given a straight choice of a European Cup with United or a European Championship with England, it's United every time. It was United who were my heart and soul as a kid. They are the team I will watch when I am ninety, god willing."





	the setting sun is sweetest last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> For May's [football prompts](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/post/160237964495/may-football-prompt-set-rules-fanworks-should-be) \- 
> 
> _I’m dreaming in blue and grey and shades_  
>  Of things my mother said I’d never be  
> All these messages and mountains  
> bearing the weight of years  
> Interpretation, Delilah Des Anges 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I cobbled this together in a few days while running around from train to train, so I'm really not satisfied with it at all >:( ONE DAY I WILL REWRITE IT

When all the hands have been shaken and hugs exchanged someone presses a microphone into his hands and he fumbles, not quite sure how to put what he's feeling into words. Eventually he settles for something about looking towards the final on Saturday and he sees David from the corner of his eye shaking his head, almost as if to say: god, Gaz, how do you manage to make everything about United when this should be about you?

In the end, it's simple.

 

-

 

"Neville," Coach says.

Gary stops kicking but doesn't look up. The ball rolls away from him and thuds softly into the wooden barrier, coming to a stop nestled in the thin school grass.

Coach walks towards him instead, his arms folded across his chest, trying to look kindly or fatherly but frowning all the same. "Your ball control needs to be better." He nods over at Phil, who's playing five-a-side with some of the older boys. "See Phil and how he takes it out of the opponents' reach?"

Gary nods, once, forces himself to turn around. It's not that he's jealous. Phil sways with the ease of a boy so much older than his years, nicking the ball and shielding it in one swift, smooth motion. A lump appears in Gary's throat and he forces it down, unwilling to be anything but proud.

When they're walking home Phil natters away about the amazing goal he scored and the even more amazing stepover he did, and Gary smiles and leans in, puts his hand just above Phil's shoulder, holds it there.

 

-

 

Once upon a time, a little boy stepped into a stadium and it was red. The _Old Trafford, Manchester_ stamped atop the stand was red; the fifty thousand people were red. He squeezed his father's hand and looked out onto the pitch. The players out there were red, too.

The men in the stands began to sing. Their voices were loud, and strong, and laced with the kind of pride the boy recognised in the way his brother looked at him. _We'll keep the red flag flying high_ \- their voices soared, all completely out of tune and yet ringing in his ears like a hymn, like a church hymn and all of this their religion. Once upon a time a little boy stepped into a stadium and gripped the terrace railings and fell in love.

"What is this, dad?" he asked.

"This is football," his father replied.

This is Manchester, he didn't have to say. This is home.

 

-

 

The first time it happens, there's a look in the physio's eyes that Gary never wants to see again but knows that he'll have to. "It's the ankle," he says. Gary feels his heart drop to below his knees; he's just grateful he's not the crying type.

"You're still my captain, Gary," the gaffer says when he comes by later. "But I'm going to ask Rio and Vida to stand in, all right? You just concentrate on getting better."

When he leaves Gary lies back and stares at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint like how David used to do.They're pale, sharp, and the relief throws thin strips of dark shadow over the plaster. He thinks of what it will be like to be sat in the stands again when he'd promised himself to step out of them. He thinks of the physio and his look, pitying, patronising, we-love-you-Gary-but-this-is-it. There is only one thing worse than not being able to play football and it is this: not being able to play football for Manchester United.

 

-

 

"Gary. Garygary _gary._ "

Phil's jumping on his bed. Gary blinks and yawns, rolling over to eyeball his brother. He'd had a late night (ten thirty is not a time that should exist) and he's trying to catch up on his sleep, but that idea's evidently gone out the window. " _W_ _hat?_ "

"You need to talk to dad," Phil begins, but then shakes his head. He's usually a happy lad but Gary's never seen him _this_ happy; frankly it's a little frightening. "Actually, never mind. I'm just gonna tell you. United want us, Gaz. Both of us. Schoolboy forms."

Gary's quiet for a long time, so much so that Phil waves a hand in front of his face, thoroughly concerned.

"Get out," he says, finally. Phil skids down the hallway to Tracey's room, laughing.

There are no posters in their room. Gary isn't the type for posters or autographs; they cost money and anyway he doesn't need them to know that he loves United. There're enough playground fights for that, enough _Manc Wanker_ cut-outs and sniggering when he declares that United are going to win the league this year and they end up tenth.

But in the bottom drawer there's a red sleeve sticking out, the one luxury allowed of him; the 1984 kit with Robson's 7 on the back. He leans over and takes it in hand, feeling the silkiness against his fingers. Every boy dreams of playing football for their favourite team. Every boy.

He tries to blink back the tears but they come faster than he can and he wipes them away, embarrassed. Phil comes back and grins and Gary shakes his head fiercely, turning away so Phil won't have to see, but Phil comes up and wraps his arms tight around him.

"What's it feel like, Gaz?" he asks, his voice cracking.

Gary doesn't reply. Maybe can't trust himself to. All he knows is he's spent seven years watching those red shirts, in that great stadium, on that green pitch, this addiction he'll have for life - and now there's a chance, no matter how small, that he won't have to watch again. 

 

 

-

 

Once upon a time, there were two boys, and both of them were red. And many clubs wanted the younger one because of the things he could do with the ball - dazzling, bright, beautiful - but one club said, "we'll take the older one if you give us the younger one."

No one said anything to him, of course. They smiled at him and patted his head and maybe they thought it would be all right. Many boys leave the academy, but at least we can say that he did have his shot.

And so he was saved. For the moment.

 

-

 

He doesn't even want to ask David to the testimonial, at first. There's an LA Galaxy game near the date and David will want to play in that more likely than not - and Gary wouldn't blame him, since it's what football players do - so he files that dream away with all the others and doesn't bring it up again until Scholesy finds out.

_"What?"_

"He's going to be busy," Gary says, defensive on reflex without meaning to be. "I don't see why I have to bother him."

"Gaz." Scholesy has the face of a man who's had to put up with this emotional bullshit for years, and Gary really doesn't blame him. "He loves you. You know that."

"Love's a strong word," he protests.

If he weren't Scholesy's best friend he's pretty sure Scholesy would have punched him by now. "Jesus, Gaz." He rolls his eyes. "You love United, yeah?"

"Yes." The reply is automatic and almost embarrassing in its quickness.

"Then why is it so hard to understand that other people can love you like a football club?"

He holds Gary's gaze until Gary breaks away, not sure whether he wants to read more into Scholesy's expression than he should. _People_ , not _person_ , had its own implications. Scholesy breathes out a little and reaches for Gary's shoulder, then draws back and folds his arms across his chest instead.

"Because he left," Gary whispers.

Scholesy shakes his head. "He never really left," he says, his eyes soft.

 

-

 

Gary doesn't remember how they became friends, but he likes to think it's because of United. Everything is about United at this point, see; every extra lap run, every ball thrown against the wall, pounds with the rhythm of first-team-first-team-one-day-one-day. When Bobby from school asks if he wants to go to the cinema with the lads he says no and doesn't see them outside of the classroom again. Only United matters, only the boy in the red shirt inside of him screaming _i'm going to wear that crest on the pitch, I am, I'm going to be there._

Only United.

And somehow, inexplicably, within that, David.

He comes to the Cliff decked out in so much merchandise that Gary isn't sure whether to be jealous or laugh at him. When he opens his mouth it's the worst Cockney accent Gary's ever heard and the urge to laugh only intensifies. Gary still sits with Scholesy and Butty at lunch, leaves the new boy to his own devices.

Until they're paired up for a youth game away in the cup, and David unpacks his things and Gary sees the same _7_ that he has at home. "You're a Robson fan?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

"'Course," David grins at him like he's known him all his life. "Have you seen him play?"

Gary finds himself grinning back.

They're fourteen, playing for a club they love, traveling up and down the country bickering about their favourite ever United sides. Somewhere along the line Gary realises that he and David have some sort of a _connection_ , that they can read each other's game as they can their own and it's fucking beautiful to watch. Somewhere along the line Gary also realises that maybe he loves David, but David never says anything, so neither does he. Instead he runs fiercer and faster than before, and when he says "I love playing for this club", he wonders if David knows he really means _I love playing with you_.

 

-

 

It's been a while since retirement and he can feel how sluggish he is. A rueful smile appears on his face - he should've trained harder for this - and he sprints as fast as he can but he can see what position he's supposed to be in without having the knees to get there.

"This is why I fucking retired," he mutters under his breath.

David hears and grins at him. "Shut up, Neville. Just give me the ball and I'll run for you." 

So Gary does, feeds it straight into the empty space where David appears seconds later like magic, and it's as if everything was falling into place again, the right wing their kingdom, the crest their crown.

 

-

 

"I've never been to Russia," Gary says, dumbly.

David laughs. "You'd like it. It's red."

Gary gives David a punch in the shoulder, but when they get to the ground he's buzzing anyhow, all charged up with the kind of excitement that drills into your bones and tells you something big is going to happen, regardless of whether you believe in it or not. 

In the seventieth minute, with the score 1-1 and Gary desperately trying not to jump off his seat and yell _COME THE FUCK ON_ because he's a _professional_ now and that's what _professionals_ aren't supposed to do, the gaffer looks at him and says, "Neville, start warming up."

He blinks.

The gaffer rolls his eyes, but there's a smile hidden in his gruffness as he jerks his head towards the pitch. "Warm up, Neville. You're going on."

Gary stands up slowly. The fans are watching and a smattering of applause breaks out as he jogs down the side of the pitch in his United bib. _Manchester_ , they're singing. _Oh, Manchester United - a bunch of bouncing Busby Babes, they deserve to be knighted._ He mouths the words with them while he runs, still not quite sure what's going on. Surely this is just a joke, surely this doesn't mean anything, surely -

"When you get out there," the gaffer says in the eighty ninth minute, "I want you to enjoy it."

And he pushes him gently towards the halfway line, where the number board has already got _14_ up in green.

Gary doesn't like to let himself think on the football pitch. There's too much riding on a game to think - there's a game to be won, there're players to be tackled, there're balls to be stopped. He can't do any of these things if he lets his mind wander. But once - just this once - he walks up to the line slowly and looks up at the stadium around him. It isn't a big crowd, on the scale of anything usual for United. It's a mid-week game against Torpedo Moscow (who?) and they aren't even winning.

Yet. It's a small crowd of United fans and they're all clapping him on. All of them, their red shirts glittering in the dark of the night like the glimmer of a wish and a hope. He looks down. His shirt is red, too, the laces done up with perfect symmetry because David had helped with them.

And the crest. The red devil, the Manchester ship, shining up bright at him as if it were saying _this is what a dream looks like when it comes true_.

"Lee Martin off for number fourteen, Gary Neville, in his Manchester United debut," says the announcer. Gary can't count how many times he's said the exact phrase in his head. He hits Lee's hands and jogs onto the pitch, sliding into right back like a proverbial joke. Only this isn't a joke, this is real, this is Old Trafford, this is him on the pitch in his boots racing up to collect a Robson pass.

He chucks the ball long and Pally blinks at him slightly open-mouthed, missing it completely. The gaffer isn't going to be pleased with that, Gary thinks, chuckles, like some kind of inside joke that amuses him more than anything. It's the only touch of his two minute cameo, but it's everything and more. "Becks,' he says on the bus back, after a long time of not trusting himself to speak.

"Yeah?"

"If I die tomorrow, I die happy."

"God, Gaz," David says, leaning over to ruffle his hair. "Stop being so fucking melodramatic all the time, will you?"

But he's smiling. They all are. Gary looks down at his hands and smiles too.

 

-

 

Once upon a time, there was a boy who made himself a player. People told him that he wouldn't make it but he thought he could, he thought he could, he thought he could.

The others laughed and asked, "why aren't you going out with girls? Why won't you have a drink? Why do you keep throwing a ball against a wall for hours? Why are you so busy and boring?"

The trick to success is not listening, and so he covered his ears and didn't listen. He threw his ball against the wall. And one day, it wasn't a wall he was throwing it to anymore.

 

-

 

"You aren't going to do that all-star eleven type of thing?" Ryan asks, draped across Gary's couch in a manner that takes all of Gary's self-control not to yell at him to sit up straight. "You could, like, invite someone cool. Play alongside some of the greats for the last time."

Gary snorts. "D'you know me at all, Giggsy? United or nothing."

"Yeah, yeah." Ryan gives him an indulgent smile. "Is a red, is a red, is a red."

"Besides." Gary lobs a potato at him and Ryan ducks out of the way, cursing. "I'm playing alongside all the greats I need."

 

-

 

They lose the title to Arsenal and it hurts. They lose and it's a bitter taste in Gary's mouth, assuaged only a little by the gaffer's quiet promise that next year they'll do better. _What if_ , he doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to think. Manchester United is not a club of _what if_ s. He thought he'd have learnt that by now.

There's no massive dinner party this time; no one says anything and only the flickering lights of the lampposts outside break through the shadows of the bus. Gary feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to find Phil, looking as small and as lost as the little boy he still thinks he is.

"It'll be okay, Gary," he says, tremulous, trying so very hard to be brave.

"Uh-huh." He reaches over and puts an arm around Phil, properly this time, holding him close and drinking in the _oh Manchester is wonderful_ that still seeps through his club suit, fans defiant as they sang. "We'll win it next year."

"You think?"

"We will." His voice is firm and his hand is steady. It's all about belief, so the saying goes. Sometimes it's all they have left.

 

-

 

Once upon a time, there was a year. There was a city. There was a colour.

 

-

 

What he remembers is this:

Flags. Scarves. One entire wall of the Nou Camp turned red, almost like they'd dug up half of Old Trafford and moved it to Barcelona. Songs. The one about the Busby Babes rings loud and true, 'sixty eight and 'ninety nine, the spirit rippling through the air.

Bayern score. He shoves it into the back of his mind, resets the game to nil-nil, all to play for. Looks over to see Phil on the bench, screaming, Scholesy in the stands, lip pulled into a thin straight line. They come again and again, the Germans, until he's run his legs into stumps, can't feel his feet anymore.

They're a minute and extra time away from losing the treble. Everything they've worked for, the comebacks against Liverpool and Spurs and Arsenal, all of that gone. A double isn't a bad thing but when it could be three, _oh_ -

Still the fans sing. They are greatest in defeat. He looks down at his chest, at the crest over his heart. There must be thousands of the same crest in the stadium, thousands of hearts, and all of them bleed the same thing.

David turns to him and says, "we can win this, you know."

He drags himself upright and sprints down towards the left flank, not even sure what he's doing there except that there's a ball that needs fetching. He puts in a cross - a good fucking cross, he thinks - and Bayern gets it out. David goes to take the corner.

He's on the pitch. He's the bloke in the stands twisting his scarf around his neck. He's the boy in the living room pacing in front of the telly. He grips his fists and mutters "come on, come on, come on, come on - "

 

-

 

And they do.

 

-

 

"Stop fucking fussing," Scholesy grumbles, punching him in the shoulder with considerably more force than he needed to. Gary yelps and glares at him.

"What?"

"It's your fucking day, Gaz." Suddenly Scholesy breaks into a wide grin, reaches up to cuff him gently around his face. "Stop worrying about everything else and just do your own thing, yeah? This is all for you."

"Yeah?" he says, can't help but settle down the way Scholesy always makes him.

"Yeah."

Scholesy leaves his hand lingering on Gary's cheek a second longer than he ought to have, and then he gives him another grin and scoots out to take his place in the line. Gary pulls the armband up his sleeve almost absently, thumbing at the familiar blue-and-white fabric.

It isn't so bad, now, is it. They're singing his song outside and he can hear all of them - row upon row of red shirts, turning their heads towards the pitch and letting the same words fill the air. _Gary Neville is a red, is a red, is a red._

Leaving United is like falling off a cliff, he'd said once, and meant it; what is he supposed to do now, after twenty, thirty years of single-minded purposeness, after hunting down every dream he'd ever had? It's a wide, open, empty future. Stepping off that proverbial island into the unknown.

Except - except that's what football is for. Whatever happens, there will always be United. There could be a fucking zombie apocalypse and he had the feeling supporters would still turn up in their ones and twos and baseball bats, all the more loud and proud.

Yes. He stands up and digs his fingers into his palms. It isn't so bad. It won't be.

 

-

 

This isn't the first time something's leaving, of course.

Once upon a time there was a boy who was in love with another boy, but it wasn't the sort of thing that people mentioned, and so he let him go.

 

-

 

He doesn't do anything but play football the year after. It's easier that way - here is something he will always love and here is something that will always love him back - and he doesn't even have to think.

Always, always. Promises, some of them broken, drum their way into his heart.

 

-

 

_Could this be the end of Gary Neville's United career?_

_Manchester man likely to move to easier pastures after injuring ankle again_

"Don't listen to them," Scholesy says.

"I know," Gary replies, but it's hard not to, nevertheless, sitting in a bed waiting for your inevitable end, for the gaffer to come by and say he's sorry. The gaffer's always been solid with dropping people and Gary wonders, with a measure of dark humour, what it'll be this time - 'no one will ever question how much you love United, lad, so it doesn't matter what club you play for'.

And maybe he'd be right. Gary had pinned his mast to the sail so long ago it didn't really matter at this point, anymore. No one could fault him for - having to leave. Everyone would understand.

He sinks into the pillows with a quiet exhaling of breath, and Scholesy makes a noise that might have been concern. Gary turns to look at him.

"I wouldn't forgive myself, you see," he says.

 

-

 

The upside of not playing in another Champions' League final is that this time he can be as much of a fan as he wants. He's jumping around, he's punching the air, he's screaming epithets at John Terry that had better not make the news - he lives the way a fan ought to. Arms in the air. Singing.

Isn't this, at the end of the day, all that matters? Whether he is on the field or not. Playing was always a privilege, never a right, but watching and loving and dreaming are things that can never be taken away.

Gary Neville is a red, is a red, is a red. He runs his thumb over the crest embroidered on his suit jacket and grins fierce in the Moscow night.

When Edwin saves the last penalty he's one of the first jumping down and onto the field, arms in the air, heart pounding against his ribcage like it's going to pool out and bleed _U-NI-TED_ into the grass. They collapse in the middle of the pitch, a tangle of arms and limbs until not one of them exists anymore, only the club; the fans in the stands flood down, everything is red, and everything is good.

He finds Scholesy just before they go up to get the trophy. His nose is still bleeding and completely out of whack but Gary has a sneaky feeling that he doesn't give a fuck. "How's it feel?" he yells into his ear.

"Fucking amazing," Scholesy yells back. Gary's never seen him this happy in his life; it's like he's glowing, and when he lets Wayne carry him around like a rag doll, Gary knows this is going to be worse than Christmas '98.

He doesn't go with them to collect the trophy and it twinges slightly when Rio and Giggsy get to lift it instead, when he should be the one leading the team up and feeling the silver cold in his hands, but really that isn't at all important. What's important is that it's the words _2008_ \- _Manchester United_ engraved into the bottom of the cup. Manchester Fucking United. _Who the fuck are we?_

'Ey. Gaz."

Giggsy's tapping him on the shoulder and he's got the cup in the other hand. "Go on," he says, jerking it towards Gary, who takes a step back and shakes his head.

"I didn't win it," he begins, suddenly knowing what Scholesy felt like all those years ago, but Rio's stuck his head around and is squinting at him with disbelief.

"United won, innit? That means you did, don'it?"

And they shove it into his hands and he's lifting it and he's screaming, the fans singing their name over and over again, confetti painting the grass red and gold, nine years they've had to wait but it's Sir Matt's birthday and forty years since the Babes and fifty since Munich, and maybe, maybe this was written in the stars.

 

-

 

Once upon a time a boy said, "in a dream world you play for United until you are ninety and then you die." But he, like everyone else, was aware that some dreams were never meant to be caught.

 

-

 

"You don't want to leave," the gaffer says, fingers perched on his table like Gary has seen it for the last twenty years.

"No," Gary admits. Acknowledges, rather. You don't admit to common knowledge.

"Then why are you?"

"I have to."

"Listen, Neville." The gaffer leans forward. "You're taking this too seriously. Go on a holiday. Take a break. Maybe you'll change your mind. You're more than good for a run of a few games, come on. Don't you want that nineteenth title?"

"Of course," Gary says, maybe sharper than he should have. The gaffer raises an eyebrow and immediately he sinks back into his seat, defeated. "Whatever you say, boss."

"Gary." The boss leans forward, shakes his head, laughs. "I know a lost cause when I see one, lad. We'll announce it later in the month, all right? You can keep training with the lads and say goodbye then,."

"Thanks, boss." Gary manages a bit of an uncertain smile. Scholesy's always complained how much of a stubborn little shit he can be, but he wonders if, perhaps, he's made the wrong decision. Wishes that someone would just talk him out of it. Wishes that for once in his life he could be selfish and put himself in front of the club, treasure the playing over the results, keep the feeling of walking out with the armband and the devil and listen to seventy thousand people sing his name.

"You don't have to," the gaffer says.

He squares his shoulders. He knows better than anyone else that you can't put something in front of the other when they are really the same.

 

-

 

"What are your interests?"

"Manchester United."

"What are you passionate about?"

"Manchester United."

"What do you think you'll do when you leave school?"

"Play football for United."

"That's tough to make, Gary. Have you ever thought about other options?"

"No."

"What are you going to do if it doesn't pan out?"

"It will. I'll make it."

 

-

 

At the end of all things he knows there is this. Philip, David, Scholesy. Giggsy-and-Butty. The gaffer. Coach Harrison. Eight titles. The Champions' League (twice, if they let him have that). So many domestic trophies he's lost count.

But amongst all that is just the one truth, has always been that one truth: and this one is spelt U-N-I-T-E-D. _United are the team for me -_

Ian Brown is singing as he walks onto the pitch, Molly and Sophie in his arms. Across the far side of Old Trafford he can see the _United, Kids, Wife_ banner and it makes him smile again. Sorry, girls, he wants to say, but this is -

He hands the girls over to his father and walks back out into the center of the pitch, accepting the plaques and presents that the gaffer is plying him with, even though he isn't really paying attention. The real present is in the stands around him - everyone singing, everyone the colour of his club. _His_ club.

Things are ending, but the end isn't so bad when it's coming home. And it is home, more than anything else he's ever known. There will never be another moment like this. There will never be another feeling like this. He raises his hands to clap the fans and they cheer for him, white and black card spelling out their song. _Gary Neville is a red, is a red, is a red._

He looks around - the gaffer on the touchline, the _Old Trafford, Manchester_ stamped atop, fifty thousand people, shirts dyed the colour of champions, of comebacks, of the way Scholesy crinkles his eyes when he smiles - and he thinks: I am, I am, I am.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

_I wasn't the most skillful player around. I've always joked that I'll have six out of ten on my gravestone because that's the perception of me - a steady Eddie in a team of stars like Cantona, Robson, Beckham, Ronaldo, Scholes, Giggs. Never bad but never great either._

_But that's OK. All that matters is that you make the most of yourself._

**Author's Note:**

> \- for blindbatalex, who asked for this for spring fling!  
> \- this entire thing is based on his biography, go read it if you haven't, it's great and So Gary  
> \- title from SHAKESPEARE (Richard II, II.i.695)  
> \- We played the 2011 final days after Gary's testimonial and it was a real testament to how important he is to the club how many people turned up even then <3 (one of my favourite Gaz things has always been how he spent most of his testimonial speech going THINK ABOUT THE FINAL YO bc... of course he would)  
> \- "At football, I had a chance of making it as a player; Phil was a certainty. Teams wanted me; they begged to have Phil."  
> \- Gaz was out for about a year? after an 'extreme tear' in his ankle and he probably made it worse trying to come back too soon because he's an Idiot  
> \- "I couldn't believe it. United wanted me. I'm not the type to become too emotional, but I did shed a little tear."  
> \- The red shirts / great stadium / green pitch quote is straight from gaz [here](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/40031864340/it-was-walking-into-the-stadium-thats-what) and it's possibly my favourite quote of his  
> \- NO BUT the 'we'll take gary if you let us take phil' is actually real (I think sir alex mentions it in co92 extended?) and I feel both bad for and proud of him, my boy, who never gave up <3  
> \- Gary did actually cut out all his old school friends and 'between the ages of sixteen and twenty I dropped women completely (and, I'll be honest, I might have struggled anyway)'  
> \- The first touch Gary gets on the ball during his testimonial is a pass to Becks...I don't know why this is important but it is  
> \- "I remember the night after that tie with Torpedo Moscow thinking, 'If I die tomorrow, I die happy'."  
> \- Becks did dsay that in the final  
> \- Sir alex did try to get him to stay and ask him to go on holiday (he eventually did, to dubai, came back and was like nah m8) - there was also this interview where he was asked 'would you rather play one more year with united or win the title' and instantly he said 'win the title'  
> \- Gary wanted to make 'United, kids, wife' the title of his book istg  
> \- I have a lot of gary feelings, this probably didn't do it justice at all buT I just love him a lot, i love the way he loves united, and i can't explain it better than he can so here is one last quote of his:
> 
>  
> 
> _You can't have a bad day playing for United. That's what I've always told the young players coming through. You may feel like you're having a crap time but when you look down and see that United badge on your chest it's always a great day. And I wore that shirt for the best part of twenty years._


End file.
